


like real people do

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Songfic, but here it is anyway, clean it up a bit, i don't think i did it real justice, i may come back to this later, this has been festering for over a year!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8983003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: this has been cooking in my head for over a year, i was constantly reminded when i heard this song, and i finally did something about it





	

I had a thought, dear  
However scary  
About that night  
The bugs and the dirt  
Why were you digging?  
What did you bury  
Before those hands pulled me  
From the earth?

I will not ask you where you came from  
I will not ask and neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do

——————————————————

(Christmas.)

John’s anger burned at the back of his skull. He would not let it spread anywhere else. He had to think about Magnussen, now. No time to be mad at his wife.

His wife. Mary.

Except that wasn’t her real name. To be perfectly honest, their marriage was also a total sham. Not just because you can’t marry someone who doesn’t exist, but also because their whole relationship had been built on lies. Her lies about who she is, was. His lies about moving on. Sherlock’s lies about dying.

That last one still got him, caught in his throat even though no words were made to be spoken. So his anger with Mary lived hotly in the base of his brain, willed never to spread; and his anger (or whatever it was, he had forgiven him after all) for Sherlock lived tangled in his throat, stuck whether he wanted it there or not.

Not to mention that his wife, Mary, was also carrying his child. He knew, no matter how he felt about Mary in the back of his mind, he would do nothing to harm her while she held their baby. But where did that leave them, when the baby’s born? John hating his wife, but having to live through it for the sake of their child? Forever afraid that Mary would leave, take their baby and go where they would never be found? Or did he fight?

He thought about what fighting would mean. Sherlock and Mycroft surely had some sort of plan for Mary, whether protection, relocation, or imprisonment. Or execution. He hated his wife, but he did not wish death on her for any reason. He loved her, as much as he hated her he still loved her and knew that killing her—letting her be killed, he corrected—would only be his last resort.

John had flipped it over in his head a thousand times. Why him? Why did Mary pick him? Why did he pick Mary?

How had he, in his grief and madness, still managed to latch onto someone who would only drag him into danger? John thought he must have some sort of signal for those types. Sherlock, Mary, more evidence would only prove a holding pattern. He had no desire to recreate these results. 

She had pulled him out of the dark, given him someone to live for again, just when he thought that position would be permanently empty. 

Then Sherlock, the mad man, came flying back and he had two people and not enough attention and while it had seemed for a little while like it could still work, they all ultimately knew it wouldn’t. Regardless of what types John was attracted to, he was a serial monogamist. A one-track mind.

So it took everything in him to make Mary think he was still with her. Physically, it was easy. Emotionally, it was running him ragged. He was ready to cave, to just give up on the charade and run back to Baker Street without hesitation. 

So here they stood, in the Holmes’ sitting room, his wife begging him to love her again. He kicked the revulsion back into its place in the back of his skull, threw the damned thumb-drive into the fire, and kissed his pregnant wife. Just like he should.

——————————————————

I knew that look dear  
Eyes always seeking  
Was there in someone  
That dug long ago  
So I will not ask you  
Why you were creeping  
In some sad way I already know

So I will not ask you where you came from  
I would not ask and neither would you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do

——————————————————

(After the fall.)

Mary was beautiful. Mary was normal. Mary was perfect.

Mary was the definition of what John wanted— before…well, before.

So even as he and Mary floated along in domestic comfort, John couldn’t help but think about whether this was still the life he wanted. He supposed he did.

It’s not like he had the alternative, not anymore.

And even though Mary was normal and pretty and perfect, John would catch her watching him. Watching him with a look that looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it.

Mary seemed to know what he wanted—needed—before he did. It was quite commendable.

He had an idea about it, but that just made him want to forget it even more. He couldn’t think about someone looking at him like that again. He didn’t want to.

He left it alone, he let Mary comfort him, and he tried to realign himself with the John Watson who had wanted this, the John Watson before. 

He felt like he owed Mary that much. If anyone deserved it now, he should.

——————————————————

I could not ask you where you came from  
I could not ask and neither could you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We could just kiss like real people do

——————————————————

(Much later.)

John stumbled into the sitting room to find Sherlock, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, curled up in his chair. 

“You know, you’re going to have to get dressed when Lestrade calls.”

“If Lestrade calls,” he moped, with a dramatic sigh.

John smiled to himself. “Tea?”

“Obviously.”

Later, in the kitchen, he would remember walking over to Sherlock, squeezing his shoulder in consolation, and planting a kiss in his hair. Because now, John reasoned, he could.


End file.
